Cutting patterns and symbols in wood, and enhancing them with vibrant color, are folk traditions kept alive in the slöjd craft. Through decorations imbued with meaning, chip carving has given soul to slöjd woodcraft throughout history. Even today, chip carving offers a natural complement to an artfully crafted spoon, cutting board or shrink box – and it provides the opportunity to develop your own creativity and meaningful patterns. This book teaches you techniques for cutting triangle chips, fingernail cuts, lines and letters — plus you’ll learn what kind of wood, knives and tools you need to get started, and techniques for painting your finished work. You’ll find 15 projects, from simple decorations on knife handles and signs to more demanding objects such as boxes and combs.
When designing a pattern, there are several things to keep in mind. It’s important to balance both the overall look and your own personal style. Allow time for the process of sketching and cutting samples.
A slöjd object with a consistent expression and a purpose connected to the context in which it is used tends to last longer in terms of design. When patterns and symbols align with function, the different parts are bound together into a whole by the subtext — a certain unity to which they all contribute. The small relates to the big as the big relates to the whole, goes a proverb coined in Florence, Italy, as early as the 15th century. On some objects, a pattern serves to add something, but sometimes the decoration takes over and demands too much attention at the expense of the whole. If so, it’s a good idea to break it down into its constituent parts and consider the different components. It’s a reflective process, which — as you experiment with new elements of form — allows for a constant development of your artistic expression through forms and patterns. Think of pattern composition as a playful and fun sketching that lends a personal expression to your slöjd.
Begin by considering the desired character of your pattern. The design of lines and patterns contributes to the overall feel of an object. Reflect on whether the lines and patterns have an expression that is distinct, exhilarated, broad and steady, delicately uneven, rough or subtle. Sometimes, mixing expressions creates a nice contrasting effect.
Continue by sketching and working with different forms, borders or ornaments, one at a time, making simple geometric shapes. Repeat or stack them on top of each other, place them close together or spaced apart. You can offset any shape vertically or horizontally, turn it upside down, invert it, bring two together or make them overlap. Geometric patterns involve a lot of mathematics. Here, you can test the golden ratio, which stipulates that the most harmonious relationship between the sides of a rectangular surface is a ratio of 3:5. Multiply the length of the shortest side by 1.618 to get the length of the longest side.
Things to consider when constructing patterns • Choose a main pattern that will catch the eye. • Surround the main motif with a balanced amount of decoration. • Divide the pattern into sections. Frame the decoration with borders and lines. • Create suspense in the geometry using rhythm, movement and variation. • Compress and expand, make it denser and more spacious. Be aware of symmetry and asymmetry. • Consider both positive and negative forms — the pattern in relation to the space in between.
Stripes and borders By dividing a surface into large or small sections using vertical, horizontal or diagonal lines, you can create stripes or borders. These can also be full circles or semicircles, reinforced with surrounding lines. Group and distribute the lines or shapes rhythmically over the surface, creating dense or spacious borders.
Smaller shapes, signs or symbols placed at an even or symmetrical distance from each other create the same effect. A border can be symmetrical or asymmetrical, sometimes inverted around a center point. But avoid mixing styles, which may easily give a cluttered impression. Alternate with uncut, undecorated surfaces; this brings space and balance to the border. Adjust lines and the way borders and patterns are grouped to bring them into balance with each other.
Grids and braids Grids arise when systems of lines intersect to form oblique or right angles. Sometimes, it’s the lines that are central and create the pattern. Other times, the empty space is essential and the lines are secondary. If the lines are brought closer together or moved farther apart, the spaces become either square or rectangular, and when they are repeated vertically or horizontally with a certain rhythm, a decorative surface is created.
When the lines intersect at an angle, they can be intertwined to look like wickerwork or braided birch bark. Alternating between thin and thick lines creates rhythm and variety in the grid or braid. One over, one under is simple math, but if the braid is to fit the intended surface without being demarcated by lines, the composition becomes more difficult. The middle grid pattern in the top row is common in Southern Sámi slöjd culture.
Often, grids are used to frame a stylistic decoration involving animals, human figures or vegetal elements in a square or rectangular shape. The pattern above is copied from a detail on a metalwork decoration on a late 12th-century coffin in Rydaholm Church in Småland.
Common elements of form • The square, circle and triangle are considered the basic forms of a carved surface. Even with simple shapes, the possible combinations quickly become numerous. • Lines and borders, dots and circles, ellipses and ovals, rhombuses, vesicae piscis, waves, grids, braids, letters and numbers. • Roses, suns, stars, moons, leaves, flowers, trees, feathers, tassels, pillars and columns. • Figurative shapes such as animals, faces, and people.
Armchair, “Jacob’s seat.” Larch, crooked birch in the armrests and posts, bird cherry in the backrest and legs. The composition of the pattern was inspired by the client’s interest in hunting in the woods and acting on the stage. Patterns and shallow relief carvings on the backrest include, in addition to the owner’s initials, a bird as a symbol of heaven and an earthly dog. The single-sided triangle chips with three maidens, two crosses and a fire-eye symbolize faith, hope and love. The sun cross with a pierced decoration in the central stanchion stands for vital energy and a backbone in life.
These are some of the tools of the joiner shown in “Spons’ Mechanics’ Own Book” (1885).
The following is excerpted from Joel Moskowitz’s history of trades and explication of trades in England at the time “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker” was originally published (the full chapter is titled “England in 1839). The Lost Art Press edition of the book include not only the original text, but Joel’s fascinating chapter as well as how-to chapters by Christopher Schwarz on the construction of the three projects described in the original text: a Packing Box, a dovetailed Schoolbox and a Chest of Drawers – using hand tools.
Why collect stuff? Is there something in one’s DNA that suggests that picking up an extra thing or two just to have them is a good idea? Before you know it, you are sitting around with a lot of things that seem kind of similar: a collection. The game ends for some collectors right there, and for others it prompts more questions about what they’ve collected and what other items would make the collection perfect.
When I began studying woodworking formally in the 1980s, there were few new tools worth buying. Fortunately, my teacher, Maurice Fraser, taught us how to buy old tools that worked. I soon bought my first old tool, a Stanley Bedrock 604C, then some more stuff, and more stuff after that. At some point I realized that if I continued making rationalizations about the tools I was buying (that I needed all of them to do woodworking; if my 32 other smooth planes were to be destroyed in a fire, I’d be comforted to know that I had number 33 waiting in the wings), I would have to sharpen all the tools I bought. On the other hand, if I relaxed and admitted I was a collector, it would save a lot of work.
So that’s what I did. In the process, I joined a lot of interesting organizations (EAIA, MWTCA, TATHS, CRAFTS and others) and found an outlet for my continuing interest in social history. I had never been much interested in who had been king when whichever side had won the Indo-Franco-Prussian-Franco wars, but I was interested in things such as why the heck anyone in their right mind in 1790 would spend a king’s ransom on a miter plane when a good smoother could plane just as well. So like many tool collectors, I started studying up on tools and industrial history, and in the process I bought a lot of books.
At some point I ran out of interesting tools to buy. I just couldn’t afford what I wanted to collect. But books were cheap, so I continued to buy interesting books on tools, woodworking and industry in general. When I started collecting in the period before 1880, I hit a snag. There just isn’t all that much to collect from that period. Woodworkers as a group are not nearly as interested in writing stuff down as, say, theologians, politicians or poets. I collected the same pre-1880 material that other collectors did, and frankly most of it was turgid and just not all that interesting to read. Much to my pleasure, “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker” was different.
A lot of people have asked me how I found this book. The answer is: I didn’t. It found me. Here’s the secret to collecting a lot of stuff: If it’s cheap enough and you don’t have it, you buy it. I picked up tons of material that way. Most of it is just fun to have. Sometimes you actually learn something about woodworking in the book. Sometimes, as in this case, you acquire the book, poke through a few pages and shout “Eureka!” when you realize what a monumental find you have. And that is exactly what this book is.
After a few reads of “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker,” it became apparent that inside the text were the earliest descriptions of certain woodworking practices that answered a lot of questions we have today, and it put to rest some modern speculation.
Various editions of the book from the left: 1839 Knight edition, leather-bound Knight edition of several volumes in the series, 1883 Houlston edition, 1841 Houlston edition.
I started buying up other copies of the book to get a handle on how various editions differed. At some point, I called Christopher Schwarz and asked if he was interested in reading what I now considered to be the most important pre-1850 book on teaching woodworking. I sent him a copy of “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker” and he, like me, was charmed. We both thought this book needed to see the light of day once more. Chris wanted to build the projects and give the book relevance to beginners today. I was especially interested in its historical context and what it tells us about shop practice in the early 19th century.
Historical Context The earliest book on woodworking in English that tells us about basic technique is Joseph Moxon’s “Mechanick Exercises,” which was published from 1677-1680 by subscription in an edition of 500 copies. Its audience was educated gentlemen who wanted to learn a little about how things are done. Men such as the noted diarist Samuel Pepys (1633-1703), who was a subscriber. “Mechanick Exercises” is pretty spotty and contains no real sense of what needs to be learned in a training course. It’s more a summary of common woodworking operations. This in itself is interesting, and readers today could certainly learn much from a social and historical standpoint, but the book doesn’t tell us anything about training a tradesman.
A century later (1769-1774), a Frenchman named André Roubo wrote a giant tome, “L’Art du Menuisier,” on all aspects of advanced woodworking just before the French Revolution got rid of a lot of the luxury styles he describes. This book is also a wonderful addition to our knowledge of 18th-century French woodworking, but Roubo concentrates on advanced subjects; it isn’t a beginner’s course. In England and the United States, the only books on woodworking during this period are “builder’s dictionaries,” “pattern books” and “price books.”
Builder’s dictionaries are glossaries of woodworking and architectural terms that include some basic information on how much things cost, and in most cases, formulas and tables for calculating materials and dimensions. The main purpose of these books was to allow rich patrons to figure out what the joiner meant when he said, “I’ll need a crown to purchase the deals I need to make the barn siding, my lord.”
Pattern books, which are collections of drawings, were sold to designers and masters who wanted to show potential customers the latest styles. The most important of these pattern books was Thomas Chippendale’s “Gentleman and Cabinet-Maker’s Director” (1754). Pattern books don’t show much furniture anatomy, which would have been familiar to any skilled craftsman, but they show endless design variations that you could show a client.
Another type of book that appeared in this period is the price book, which explained to union and craft society members how much they should be paid for different kinds of woodwork. Price books usually are tied to a region, with London price books being the most common. But price books crop up in all the important cities, even in the United States – pretty much anywhere there was enough work for a journeyman working in a shop for wages. As the industry grew, labor relations became more complicated and societies of trades, or unions, began to form in the 18th century. Small shops could of course get away with paying what they wanted to, but larger shops followed the price books. Price books served as a last vestige of the medieval guild system, which regulated pay, among other functions.
In the 18th century, all books were still hand printed, with hand-set type on hand-laid paper. Books were expensive, so the shortage of popular, practical books for woodworking apprentices is understandable. “Mechanick Exercises” was far too expensive for a poor apprentice to afford. Of the few professional how-to books that exist from the early 18th century in English, one of the more noteworthy is “The Complete English Tradesman,” which was published in 1703 by none other than Daniel Defoe of “Robinson Crusoe” fame. The book is a guide to running a millinery shop. So there was a demand for “how to” books, but the hand-printed nature of the book would have kept circulation from all but the fairly well-off milliner.
I have a reference book from 1777 for ironmongers, “Mr. Hoppus’s Measurer.” It’s carefully inscribed, “George Barter His Book June 3, 1787.” The inscription suggests this was a treasured book that was purchased used 10 years after it was published. If a new, up-to-date copy could be afforded, certainly a used copy would not be so prized. Even if there had been a demand for an apprentice’s guide, the book would have been too expensive for apprentices to buy, and certainly many would think that there was no point in paying for a book about something you did every day anyway.
Technical books of all sorts began to appear in the late 18th and early 19th centuries as a booming industrial economy started to change everything. In general, the books addressed the cutting edge of technology, not basic skills. The audience for books on wood was comprised of professional builders and woodworkers who already knew all the basics. They were not interested in directions for cutting dovetails; that, they learned to do in their sleep during their apprenticeship. What they wanted were books on the finer points of their craft. Probably the most famous book in this class was Peter Nicholson’s “The New and Improved Practical Builder” (1809).
Nicholson wrote a whole series of books on various aspects of carpentry and construction. His books are the best-known of the early 19th-century books on woodworking, especially those on advanced architectural work. Nicholson explained the math and layout for all sorts of woodwork structures. While they are totally useless as training exercises, they are great books on applied geometry. They offer an engraving of the tools of the joiner and lots of information on layout and design, but almost nothing on how to use the tools. These books are different than the really limited-run volumes such as Roubo. Some of them were reprinted continuously for most of the 19th century. While all of these books are fascinating today to historians, and they tell us a lot about the practice of woodworking, there is almost nothing on basic technique from the period. But this is what we all want: A book that shows us and teaches us the lessons of apprentices from before the machine age.
A list of the topics covered in “The Guide to Service” and “The Guide to Trade” series from 1845.
By the early 19th century, steam-powered printing presses and machine-made paper made daily newspapers ubiquitous for the masses. Reading became a fundamental skill, and books, while still expensive, became affordable to the middle class. When first published in 1839 by Charles Knight and Co. “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker” was part of a series called “The Guide to Trade.” A few years later the series was re-titled “The Industrial Library” and was published variously under the “Houlston & Wright,” “Houlston & Stone,” and later just “Houlston” imprints. “Industrial” in this sense means hard working, not jobs in manufacturing.
Few of these books are preserved in research libraries around the world. These were titles for the masses, not for scholars. And unless a library was specifically collecting popular literature (which they mostly weren’t), there would be no reason to acquire these books.
The goal of the “The Guide to Trade” series and its companion series, “The Guide to Service” series, was ambitious. It appeared to be a comprehensive group of nearly 100 books, printed as inexpensively as possible to serve as a overview of all sorts of vocations “to prepare young persons for the choice of an occupation.” Of all the books listed in the original series, only a few are marked as available. And the series was obviously not successful for Knight because only two years later, in 1841, the list was greatly pruned and was printed under the “Houlston” imprint. Thirty-six books made it into this new series now titled “The Industrial Library,” which was announced in a full-page advertisement in “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker.” By the time of the 1883 edition, 44 years later, the advertisement for the series has been reduced to a fraction of a page, and it competes with a bunch of other self-improvement series. There’s a lot to be learned about how England changed during the time this series ran. Of the 36 original titles of 1841, no less than seven deal with traditional agricultural jobs, and nine deal with domestic jobs.
In 1841, the series was greatly pruned and was printed under the “Houlston” imprint. Thirty-six books made it into this new series now titled “The Industrial Library,” which was announced in this full-page advertisement at the back of the book.
By the time of the 1883 edition, the advertisement for the series has been reduced to a fraction of a page, and it competes with a bunch of other self-improvement series and maps.
The prices of the books are largely the same, reflecting massive changes in book publishing. What is most interesting is the change in titles. The series numbering now has gaps, as only 20 books remain. The books that have been removed are almost all agricultural. I was able to locate only one agricultural title in a library, anywhere. Agricultural workers would have been the poorest and least literate of all the trades in the series, so it makes sense that they didn’t buy these books. But the deletions are also a testimony to the shift from a rural economy to a predominantly urban one.
The craft books that have vanished include “The Dressmaker and Milliner,” “The Tailor” and “The Shoemaker.” These are all trades that changed from real crafts in the early 19th century to brutal industrial manufacturing jobs by the latter half of the century; they didn’t require much training (except on the very high end) and certainly were not desirable jobs in the public imagination.
Two other new titles have been added: “The Butler” and “The Footman,” which are both domestic jobs. The large number of titles about domestic employment might be an indication of employers trying to train their hires, or it’s evidence of a rising middle class that hired domestic workers to emulate richer household practices. In addition, books such as these might help a young person get a domestic position – jobs that were hard to get and considered pretty good.
While both lists have “Clerk” and “Banker’s Clerk” on them, jobs that I would suppose are fairly prestigious, it’s interesting to see the titles (which I also could not locate copies of) intermixed with all these titles for domestic jobs. The urban office world, with its shift to “white collar” work, still hadn’t taken place on any great scale. That was a 20th-century innovation.
Some of the books in the series are credited to various authors but “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker” is not. This isn’t unusual for the time, but it is a shame that we don’t know more about who wrote it.
Of all the “Industrial Library” books that I’ve been able to locate, only “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker” is told in the form of a story. (The book on the housemaid has a limited narration.) The other books seem to be early attempts at writing how-to books, with limited success in condensing a complicated trade to a hundred or so pages. Various editions of “The Joiner and Cabinet Maker” have turned up, but it is not known if the book was continually available from its first publication in 1839 to the last in 1883, from which this facsimile was taken. The later edition was made from the same plates as the 1839 edition and is identical. An addendum about new modern tools was added to this later edition. It’s included here, but it’s not really worth much. We chose to scan the later edition of the book because it’s visually the same as the earlier edition but its binding was in better shape than the other copies in my collection.
The books themselves are a microcosm of invention, a window in how book publishing changed during the 19th century. (For more information about the books themselves, and the book technologies used in printing these books, see “Contextualizing ‘The Joiner and Cabinet Maker’” by Jeff Peachy, a noted bookbinder and book conservator, at the back of this book.) What is a shame, of course, is that the original Knight series was never completed. How wonderful would it be to have a copy of “Cutler” or “Watchmaker” today.
The following is excerpted from “Honest Labour: The Charles H. Hayward Years,” a collection of the storied editor’s Chips From the Chisel, column, which ran in the front of every issue of The Woodworker for three decades.
What our full powers are—we shall never know exactly this side of the grave, but we can have a wonderfully interesting time trying to find out.
There are times when, looking back on our lives, we get a sudden sense of pattern. The kind of thing that happens when an artist, who has been plotting out a design in a series of small dots, which to the eye of the beholder look quite unrelated, joins them up with lines and curves and we become aware of the design, which he will enrich with colour and other decoration till the whole thing glows with life. It seems as though, in our own lives, the tiny dots, the small pointers which give direction to the whole, are the choices we make, those deliberate choices which in however small a way are strong enough to give some new direction to our activities or to the thoughts governing our activities which will end by colouring the whole.
The lines may not always be clear. There are always forces combining to pull us away from any deliberate choice. We may feel we need to make some real creative effort in our lives and to take up woodwork seriously in our spare time, having already dabbled in it a little, so that we become considerable craftsmen. But time is not elastic and the claims of family and friends and our own tendency to take the line of least resistance can easily divert us altogether from our programme unless we firmly dig in our heels. There is a world of difference between the just claims of others in daily living and the tendency to annex us altogether. You know the kind of thing—it is always happening. Only the other day I heard a group of youngsters discussing a popular boy, Jack, who had refused to accompany them on some projected expedition because he was studying for an examination. “Oh,” said one of his friends, “He must come. We’ll see to that.” I happened to know that examination meant a lot to Jack, who is desperately anxious to be a doctor, and wondered who would win. It is not easy for a popular sixteen-year-old to shut his head in textbooks, but that is the kind of decision in some shape or form that has so often to be made if we are going to achieve anything at all, and not only when we are young.
It is always easier to take the line of least resistance and go with the crowd, with the danger then that, instead of a design, the pattern of our lives may come to resemble a child’s meaningless scribble. We have to make choices and stick to them, even when it is not easy, if we are going to get any kind of satisfaction out of the business of living.
It is as though each of us is king of a little kingdom, which is ourselves. We have to keep control, prevent undue encroachments, give away to just claims, know when to relax and when to be firm, to keep a check over the foes within, which are our own weaknesses of temperament that, unchecked, could soon produce anarchy, and keep a particularly watchful eye on the thieves and snatchers of our time under whatever guise they come, time being the most precious commodity we have. Being human we shall fail often, but so long as we continue to make the effort, and in proportion to the amount of that effort, something worth while will evolve. The complete enthusiast, which includes all men of genius, has far less of a problem. His enthusiasm shows itself in a passion for his chosen work which refuses to be daunted by obstacles or hindrances, but must always be practising and experimenting. The custom of late years of publishing separate details of some of the pictures painted by the world’s greatest artists has been particularly revealing in this respect. It enables one to see the loving care, the passionate interest and powers of observation which have gone into the minutest part of a picture, the veins of a hand, the shimmer of light on silk and velvet, a dog quivering with excitement, a chandelier solidly and exactly portrayed, in all and every manner of thing each tiny detail perfect of its kind, and each representing not only the time spent in immediate execution but the hours beyond count which the artist has spent in acquiring his skill by drawing and painting everything within reach. For many of us enthusiasm is more fitful, wonderful when it comes sweeping us along on a glowing tide but liable to leave us stranded high and dry, our skill a mere adequacy or a job half completed. And it is at that point where determination has to step in to fill the gap.
But it is worth it. Only so can we hope to come within sight of our full powers, of our capacity for living. What these are in their fullness we shall never know exactly this side of the grave, but we can have a wonderfully interesting time trying to find out. Because the only way of finding out is by doing things and keeping on doing things as creatively and imaginatively as we can, and not scattering ourselves too much. Always remembering that we have to be like the gardener, who sacrifices most of his rosebuds by careful pruning in order to develop the few buds of his choice to their fullest extent. In a limited lifetime one cannot do everything, but it is safe to say that the choice of a craft like woodwork is sufficient to send one’s interests stemming out in all manner of directions, adding enough colour to one’s pattern of life to give a wonderful zest to living.
The following is excerpted from “Good Work: The Chairmaking Life of John Brown,” by Christopher Williams. It’s the first biography of one of the most influential chairmakers and writers of the 20th century: Welshman John Brown.
The book’s title of “Good Work” was an expression John Brown used to describe a noble act or thing. He once mused he wanted to create a “Good Work” seal that could be applied to truly beautiful and handmade goods – like the “Good Housekeeping” seal of approval.
“Good Work” is the kind of woodworking book we live for at Lost Art Press. It’s not about offering you plans, jigs or techniques per se. Its aim instead is to challenge the way you look at woodworking through the lens of one of its most important 20th century figures. And though this appears to be a book on chairmaking, it’s much more. Anyone who is interested in handwork, vernacular furniture, workshop philosophy or iconoclastic characters will enjoy “Good Work.”
Author Chris Williams spent about a decade with John Brown in Wales, building Welsh chairs and pushing this vernacular form further and further. This book recounts their work together, from the first day that Chris nervously called John Brown until the day his mentor died in 2008.
This book is about a man, a chair and a set of ideals. It’s a journey of enlightenment, inspiration and heartbreak as I experienced it. There are many facets to John Brown’s life and his life less ordinary, but my story concentrates on John Brown the chairmaker. Other important voices will be heard throughout, each will give an account of the time they spent with John Brown, or JB as he’ll often be referred as. His daughter Molly Brown has beautifully illustrated the book; each illustration tells its own story, be it a chair, landscape or Celtic cross, all relevant to what John Brown held dear. I’m indebted to Lost Art Press, which secured the rights to 19 of John Brown’s wonderful columns from Good Woodworking magazine. These essays will give you a flavour of his writing and philosophical approach to life in the years after writing his book “Welsh Stick Chairs.” But before we dive into that, here’s some brief housekeeping to fully acquaint you with the country that gave birth to both the man and chair.
Wales: The name given to us by the Anglo-Saxons. They were one of the many who tried to conquer our land. The Romans, Vikings and Normans all left their mark, yet we are still here as a proud nation. Wales is known to its indigenous people as CYMRU. Sadly the name Wales and its people, “The Welsh,” have stuck. And for the broader subject of this book, we’ll stick with this term.
Wales is a small country that along with Scotland, England and Northern Ireland make up what is known to most as Great Britain or the United Kingdom. The country lies on the western seaboard side of the UK. Its population is approximately 3.1 million people. Its topography is mostly mountainous, with a coastline of more than 2,700 km. Its coal, iron and slate industries are now shadows of their former selves. Agriculture is now one of our main industries, particularly sheep farming in the hills and dairy farming in the lowlands. Tourism also is a large part of the Welsh economy. People are drawn to its spectacular coastline, mountains and abundant castles.
Wales is a bilingual country. The Welsh language has survived despite centuries of persecution by the English and the powers in Westminster. It is now spoken by more than 560,000 people; for many it is still their first language.
John Brown in his younger days.
During Britain’s recent history, huge swathes of people emigrated to the New World. The Irish, Scots and English all colonised enormous areas of the British Empire. The Welsh mostly stayed at home, yet small numbers went to Patagonia, North America and Australasia. As a result, Wales is little known on the world stage. The Irish identity, for example, remains a huge part of life in the New World. The Scottish are known for whisky and kilts, but the Welsh… we seem indifferent to many.
If anything, we’re known for the Welsh male voice choir and rugby. This frustrates me, even more so when people see a map of Great Britain and they deem it “England.” It definitely is not! The Welsh are the original inhabitants of Britain, which is known as YNYS PRYDEIN, or “The Isle of Britain” to its indigenous people. There are myriad books on the history of Wales and its people, but this book is about one Welshman in particular and a chair.
“John Brown” was born in Wales, yet spent half of his life in England. He returned to his homeland of Wales as a middle-aged man with an English accent. Culturally different, Wales must have felt alien and different to the Wales of his childhood in the industrial valleys. After a few moves he settled into the predominantly Welsh-speaking area of Cilgwyn in rural North Pembrokeshire. His flamboyant character must have stood out in that parochial community. Twenty years would pass before I would meet him in person, but during those years in that most beautiful corner of Wales he regained his sense of Welshness. For those early years other voices will be heard in this book, for that story is theirs to tell. What I write is from my personal experience and perspective.
One of John Brown’s so-called “primitive” chairs (left) and his Cardigan chair.
John Brown once told me that he felt like an outsider because of his English accent, yet he was born in Wales and was a Welshman. He would have been deemed a “Saeson” – an Englishman in many Welsh-speaking communities. It’s an arbitrary distinction. Yet, this sense of identity based on how we speak raises much passion in Britain. It was a conundrum for John Brown, no doubt. I do know that at least he never suffered the remarks that many have endured for having a Welsh accent. Britain is a diverse country with wonderfully different dialects and accents. Yet, why is it that unless you speak with a posh, plummy English accent you are immediately deemed as stupid?
John Brown was a maverick, and he knew his cultural history. He was the most well-read man I ever met. The knowledge that he amassed was staggering, and it had to be vented at times. John Brown relished getting his strong opinions over and out. These rants became quite the norm for me. I couldn’t call them debates, as I would have had to say something. I learnt to say nothing, as I was young and naive. Yet, perversely, I learned much from them.
During one of these rants, he said something that touched a nerve. We were having a pot of tea. I was taking a sip when he announced: “Your average Welshman is an arsehole!” I nearly spat out the contents of my now-gaping mouth. Myself, Welsh born and bred, and definitely Mr. Average. I listened tentatively to his sermon until he got to the crux of his outburst: Why did the Welsh let everyone walk all over them? Why couldn’t the Welsh voice be heard? These frustrations are why he had written the book “Welsh Stick Chairs.” He’d found a culture rich in history and a chair that would become an obsession. He was intuitive and foresaw his beloved chair being annexed as some form of English regional chair. For John Brown, this couldn’t happen.
I forgave his outburst as he was correct. We don’t need any experts other than ourselves. “Welsh Stick Chairs” is a wonderful source of information. It’s a brief history of Wales, a chair and one man’s obsession with it, all encapsulated into a small book that became a cult object. It planted a seed that has been sown around the world. Its message is different for all who have read it.
How to Enter Wales Just before entering Wales from England on the M4 motorway you have to cross the Severn Bridge. The bridge spans 1.6 km over the River Severn, and on reaching the other side you’re soon greeted by a road sign that reads “Croeso i Gymru,” which translates as “Welcome to Wales.” From this point on, every road sign in Wales is bilingual. This particular location is relevant and poignant to this story. During a passionate conversation (or lecture), John Brown told me how he wanted to see a giant sculpture erected of a Welsh stick chair on entering Wales, similar in scale to Anthony Gormley’s “Angel of the North” near Gateshead in Northern England. He thought that the humble Welsh stick chair should become the cultural icon of Wales. That particular conversation holds me to this day. Read on. I hope that at the end of the journey (this book) you’ll realise that it’s OK to dream of giant chairs and to let your imagination run riot with this (or any) aesthetic in chair design. I’ll try and explain….
Whilst travelling by car to Wales from the south or west of England you can see the Severn Bridge looming from several miles distant, its huge white towers slung with miles of wire, supporting the carriageway beneath. As a child it always excited me to see the old Severn bridge whilst on my return home from family holidays in England. It’s a milestone in that I knew I was nearing my homeland and friends. Decades later I still get that feeling when I first see the bridge, but my thoughts are now different. So here we go….
Slowly my daily mind drains away, transcending into something more ethereal in nature, a vision begins. I’m looking at a colossus – a primitive chair, six long sticks piercing the clouds, four eccentrically raked legs rooting it to the Welsh soil, its form hoary with age and its colour patinated dark by the elements. Its silhouette screaming “I’m Welsh” against a brooding skyline. It looks outwardly from Wales. A sentinel for the past, present and future. A voiceless yet powerful symbol. This surreal moment holds me for several minutes. Its finale is when I tip my imaginary cap to John Brown as I see the road sign welcoming me back to my homeland. The moment passes and reality returns. I usually think about chairs and JB from then on until I reach home. Melancholic, maybe. Yet, this won’t be the last you’ll read about giant chairs as they prove to have an important role in the tale that will unfold.
John Brown’s book “Welsh Stick Chairs” is a classic. It gives us insight into a craftsman’s life. The book’s section on building a chair, with its beautiful black-and-white photos of the chair’s construction, had a huge impact on me. This inspired me to build chairs, yet there are no plans in his book. This subject of plans is an integral part of this book – integral because there won’t be any plans, but the subject will crop up constantly for good reason.
Why no plans? John Brown wrote in a Good Woodworking magazine column, “It is never so valid building from other people’s plans as seeing an object in your imagination and then making it. I would like to see purveyors of plans go bankrupt.”
I’d hate to see his words being taken out of context. He then went on to write, “There are, of course, many exceptions.” This might sound extreme, but it’s fundamental to the way JB felt about chairmaking. He fully understood the origins of the early chairs and their makers. No two chairs were identical, so how could a plan work? How could he ever make the same chair twice? This would become sacrosanct to his philosophy as well to me personally.
John Brown signed his chairs with a Celtic cross.
JB would happily and freely give advice on tools and workshop practise, including plans for tool chests, workbenches etc. in his monthly columns. Yet, plans for chairs weren’t up for discussion. As you read this book I hope you’ll be inspired and realise that the lack of plans isn’t a negative! This isn’t meant to alienate you, I promise! I hope that you’ll embrace it as a different way of woodworking and design. Reread “Welsh Stick Chairs.” Read this book over and over, become a monk for a while, let this mantra invade your veins. This approach worked for me! So first let me give you some insight into how this works.
When I was in my late teens I built my first chair. I didn’t own a set of French curves or anything in particular to aid me in drawing a fair curve. I hadn’t thought about buying a plan (even if one was available). I can well remember using a bin lid (trash can lid) to draw in the back curve of a chair seat, as well as using a coffee mug to draw the curves on the front corners of the seat. Once I had the curves looking fair I was away. It was my first tentative step into a new world of chairmaking. I felt at times that I was almost plucking shapes from the air. Did I have insecurities about what I was doing? Definitely! What I made was in truth a mediocre chair. It was, without doubt, a fundamental part of my learning, and it helped me think outside the box. I hope that you will get this message, accept it and fully immerse yourself into a journey of self-discovery as a free thinker and maker. It’s OK if your chairs don’t look like what you see in your mind’s eye – embrace it! Your work will become better for it.
If, at the end of the book, you feel that you’re in need of a plan, please know that there’s a plethora of wonderful books out there on the subject of chairmaking. If you’re stuck on the Welsh chair aesthetic, Christopher Schwarz’s excellent book “The Anarchist Design Book” has a chair plan of an American Welsh Stick Chair.
Glen Alsworth’s fish knife with scaler on the back side. Dick made the sheath from moose leg skin with short hair. (Photo courtesy of the National Park Service)
Millions of PBS viewers first met Dick Proenneke through the program “Alone in the Wilderness,” which documents Dick’s 30-year adventure in the Alaskan wilderness. On the shores of Twin Lakes, Dick built his cabin and nearly all of the household objects he required to survive, from the ingenious wooden hinges on his front door to the metal ice creepers he strapped to his boots.
And now, “The Handcrafted Life of Dick Proenneke” examines this adventure through the lens of Dick’s tools and the objects he made. Written by Monroe Robinson – the caretaker of Dick’s cabin and his personal effects – the book weaves together vintage photos and entries from Dick’s journals plus new drawings and images to paint a portrait of a man fully engaged in life and the natural world around him.
Dick Proenneke lived isolated in miles, but not in spirit. Many visitors came as friends. Others visited and became friends. Dick paid attention to people both when he was with you and through correspondence. If you wrote Dick, he wrote you back. It is hard to imagine an individual who chose to live as remotely as Dick while also nourishing relationships as he did.
Dick’s handcrafted gifts of bowls, spoons and knives can not be separated from his relationship with family, friends and community. His journaling and letter writing fits comfortably alongside his handcrafted gifts. Imagine having dozens of letters to mail through a post office many air miles away, not have any postage stamps and not knowing when someone would fly in with mail and be willing to take outgoing mail.
Far more people sent Dick provisions and gifts than this chapter touches upon. Here are just a few people who touched Dick’s life, and whose lives were touched in return.
July 7, 1968: On up to Lofstedt’s cabin to return a couple magazines borrowed last winter and to search for a good ladder pole. The mission at Nondalton needs a ladder. Babe liked the one I built for my cache and said he would fly one out for the mission if I would build it. It shall be done. The mission girls gone home state side for a year. I hope Babe doesn’t forget who the ladder belongs to before they come back.
July 31, 1968: I had been thinking that I could use a big wooden spoon to spoon my hotcake batter on to the griddle – one spoon full one hotcake. I had looked through my scraps of stump wood and found a couple pieces that looked suitable. I doubt if it took more than an hour to turn out a good looking spoon. I have more wood and I could use a wooden bowl or two.
August 14, 1968: This morning on my way to the cabin for lunch I searched for a spruce tree with a burl. I had seen one in the back forty. I found a big dead tree with one but it isn’t too good. I would cut it off and make a wooden bowl.
August 24, 1968: I have been thinking of trying to turn out a wooden bowl from stump wood. I hollowed it out easy enough but cut it too thin on the outside and broke a chunk out so made kindling of it.
November 22, 1968: I sawed and split some wood and made myself a real nice candleholder from a spruce burl.
Spruce burl bowl and spoons made by Dick, 1972. (Photo by Dick Proenneke, courtesy of the National Park Service)
February 12, 1969: Overcast, a strong breeze down the lake and a +25°. I was really surprised after it being a -26°. Just like spring – I would take advantage of it and carve out a big wooden spoon for Mary Alsworth in exchange for the heavy boot sox. I dug out a good looking stump from the deep snow and went to work. She ordered a spoon with lots of curve to it so that is the way it would be. Nice to be working wood again and not uncomfortable with the temp. a weak 30°. The camp robbers kept me company and one sang a solo. I haven’t heard one sing but a few times but this one sat in a tree near where I worked at my bench and sang for nearly five minutes – he was really happy with the change in temperature.
February 13, 1969: A little squirrel came by as I worked at the woodshed and I watched to see if he acted familiar. He didn’t make the usual circuit checking the stump and butcher block for bones so he is a stranger. With the snow settled he was able to get over the top in fair shape. A wood scrap from the spoon just about right to make a fork so I marked one out and went to work. Under the shed roof at the saw buck – I heard a gentle warbling. There just across from me perched on a tree branch was my little friend, his throat working and a song that could be easily heard. I waited until he was through then cut some meat scraps and put them on the chopping block not three feet from me. Now we had the magpies outsmarted. He would take the meat to the brushy lower branches and eat it there. Nothing but friendly when he is alone but if the other jays are there he hangs back and you would never know him from the others.
The fork completed and it looks pretty good. Still time to saw and split a few blocks.
April 5, 1969: A wooden spoon marked out (makes 10 I have made) so while tending my cooking I sawed it out, scooped out the bowl – trimmed the outside and rasp it to shape. Sand it smooth – if only I was better fixed for good coarse sandpaper.
April 13, 1969: I roughed out a bowl from a spruce burl using wood auger and gouge chisel.
April 20, 1969: A good time to try Jakes coarse emery cloth – finish the spoon I had in the making. Sand a big spruce burl tabletop and work on the bowl that I had roughed out. Inside curves are hard on emery cloth. Seems no time and it is like a rag with no abrasive on it. I rounded the end of a stick of 2 in. spruce from my woodpile. Took my bowl up to the point and dry fine sand, a hand full of sand and much elbow grease to rotate the stick did a fair job. Much like a poor mans sand blaster.
April 25, 1969: Time to sand the inside of my spruce burl bowl. A gift to Mary Alsworth when I get it finished. Payment for all the extra good things to eat that she has sent and for the good mail service. I moved out under the overhang to sand and keep an eye on the lake in case some wild animal might venture out on it.
A mallet Dick made from a very hard spruce limb. (Photo by Monroe Robinson)
June 7, 1969: The first cut of the big burl – what to make of it. Hollow it out and make a super bowl or planter. I went to work with the 11⁄2 inch auger. Ninety-one holes to get it ready to hollow out with axe and chisel. June 9, 1969:
Today I would work on my big spruce burl bowl. A lot of work and I was filling a box with chips. Gouging away and the chisel went over the edge and sliced across the knee of my new Frisco jeans. Only a cut an inch long but exactly where they take the most wear. Lucky that I didn’t cut my knee. As it was I was only scratched. By noon still not done but getting down to the proper thickness. Enough of that exercise for today.
July 8, 1969: A small burl standing by. I would see if I could turn out a bowl while it rained…This one would be a mini bowl – only 4 in. x 5 and 15/8 in. deep. Considerable work goes into hollowing out a burl and sanding it smooth.
July 23, 1969: About a week ago while traveling down country high in the timber and brush below Gold mountain I came across a down tree – dead and with a good burl on the side. A thick one that would make a good bowl about 12 inches or more in diameter and maybe five inches deep. I half surveyed the location so I might find it again.
June 24, 1971 I worked on outgoing mail nearly all morning. Film to pack and letters to write. One full bottle of Sheaffers Skrip ink used since May 16.
May 28, 1972: I was looking for a spruce burl to make a bowl about six or eight inches across. It would have to come from a dead tree and still be sound.
Cleaned ink bottles lining Dick’s outhouse wall. (Photo by Monroe Robinson)
May 29, 1972: Some time to kill till lunch so I gouged out the burl. Not finished by any means but the rough work three fourths done.
June 4, 1972: Today I would stay home. The bowl and spoons to finish. More sanding and then three coats of Humicure (plastic finish) at two-hour intervals. Write letters and do other odd jobs in between coats.
June 9, 1972: If I could find a suitable burl I would make another bowl. I wandered about, thinking I might see a spruce grouse. I haven’t seen one for several days now. A burl on a dead tree but it wasn’t much. I marked the spot by lining up east Cowgill peak and the caribou lying on the bench. I found another not far from Spike’s cabin but on a green tree.
